


mistletoe chicken

by mirrorkill



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Clothed Sex, Derek is a Failwolf, Dry Humping, Gay Chicken, Implied Mpreg, Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5465432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrorkill/pseuds/mirrorkill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek left for just an hour and by the time he's back, there's a bunch of mistletoe hanging up by the west-side wall, along with a ring of tinsel, and a chart which looks like Peter and Stiles are winning some bizarre game of bingo.</p><p>Spoiler: it's not bingo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mistletoe chicken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seraphina_snape](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphina_snape/gifts).



> I wrote this for the incredible seraphina_snape two years ago for her birthday and meant to post it last holiday season but I forgot. I DIDN'T FORGET THIS YEAR YAY :D :D :D (sorry sera this isn't new you've already seen this ;_;)
> 
> warning: past mpreg in the time stamp :D :D :D just for the sake of one joke. i. i have no shame.

Derek just can't get the pack out of his place.

He scowls at them for it, but because it's his default expression they just ignore him. It's kind of for the best, because Derek secretly likes the pack hanging out at his place. He'll just tear the face off anyone who makes him say it out loud.

In the grand tradition of the general fuckery that is his inability to pick somewhere nice to live, his current digs are an apartment made from a renovated water tower.

(It's slightly too on-the-nose for anyone who knows the jumbled jigsaw of his psychological make-up, but to be fair, what _is_ further than a house on the ground on fire, than a house built to carry water _sitting on stilts._ Whatever. No one's called him on it.

They're probably too scared he'll snap and live up to one of his outlandish threats.

Or maybe they just like the view.)

This place definitely has its benefits. The view _is_ amazing. Sometimes Derek gets to melodramatically jump from one of the windows and pose with the water tower rising behind him.

And the time when Isaac came back from Paris and they told him to go stand in a corner and it took him ten minutes to figure out that in a circular room there _is_ no corner?

Still, although there are upsides to the company (as in, Derek's slowly been regaining a modicum of self-esteem and self worth), there are downsides too.

Like never getting control of his own TV. And his snacks keep disappearing.

And _weird things_ keep appearing in the main room.

Case in hand: Derek left for just an hour to replenish his snacks, because hungry werewolves tend to equate with property damage and he _likes_ his water tower, and by the time he's back, there's a bunch of mistletoe hanging up by the west-side wall, along with a ring of tinsel, and a chart which looks like Peter and Stiles are winning some bizarre game of bingo.

"I'd skirt the tinsel if I were you," Isaac calls out, as Derek closes the door and eyeballs the set-up.

"Spoilsport," Lydia whines, "I pretty much had him pegged as a shoo-in."

"I wouldn't mind seeing you peg him," Stiles adds, and Derek's definitely grown as a person; he only wants to strangle Stiles for the lewd comment instead of wanting to rip his throat out. Yay for personal growth.

Derek carefully sidesteps the tinsel, and puts the groceries away in the part of the room that doubles as the kitchen, mostly because none of the others know his system, but a little because he needs the space to hide his favorite snacks in among the smelliest things in his pantry; thankfully growing up amongst wolves has given him an arsenal of how to keep his Doritos away from supersensing noses.

Of course, he turns around for one second – and Stiles has already found them.

Derek refrains from sighing, rolling his eyes and pinching his nose melodramatically, but only because Stiles seems to take that as a win.

At least Stiles offers the bag to him, so there's that small silver lining. Stiles chews on the snacks and leans against the kitchen island, gaze lingering speculatively on Derek's methodical putting away skills.

"Stop being a boring grownup and help me convince them we need to watch _Batman,_ " Stiles says.

Derek looks between the bag of cereal and the sofas full of what Stiles calls the supernatural and the supernatural-adjacent, and what Derek calls _badly-raised inbred nightmares who would put fruit loops next to the granola._

"Okay," Derek says.

"No," Scott says, as both of them walk up to the back of the sofas.

"Aw, man—" Stiles instantly protests. "C'mon. _Batman._ What's not to like?"

"Other than you've made us watch it thirty times in the last five months?" Scott asks.

"That's an exaggeration," Stiles says, and turns to Derek, scowling. "Tell them it's an exaggeration."

"What did your last slave die from?" Derek asks. Scott laughs out loud.

Stiles flails at them both, suitably outraged by the joint betrayal.

"Twenty-eight times," Lydia points out. "So technically an exaggeration—"

" _Thank_ you, Lydia," Stiles says.

"—but that still makes it twenty-eight times," Lydia says, heavily. "We're watching something else."

"It's my TV set," Derek says, slowly.

Malia reaches over from where she's sitting and pats him condescendingly on the back of the hand. "Sure it is," she says. "Suuuure it is." Derek scowls at her, but Malia's immune to it; she just beams and turns back to the TV, idly flicking through the channels.

"I did eat a burrito for lunch," Stiles says, trailing his fingers over the back of the sofa. Derek doesn't watch, nope, no sirree. "It made me kinda… " He pauses melodramatically, before bending over so his head is right between Scott and Lydia. "Gassy."

Stiles stumbles back, clawing at his eyes, and Lydia waggles the can of air freshener at Derek before sliding it back into her purse.

"Looks like that's not a problem," Scott says.

"Some sympathy would be nice," Stiles says, rolling around on the floor and clutching at his face. 

"Is that a real thing?" Derek says. "Sympathy? I've never heard of it."

"Someone should be sorry for me," Stiles whines.

"I'm sorry for the Doritos you dropped on the floor," Scott says, leaning down and scooping up the dropped packet.

Derek has to avert his eyes from the handful of Doritos lying on the ground.

"Sympathy is a fictional construct," Malia agrees. "I'm pretty sure."

"Fine," Stiles says, "it's fine, we'll watch something _boring_ and make me even _more_ bored—"

"Even though sympathy is fictional, can I have some of it for listening to his whining?" Lydia asks.

"Of _course_ ," Malia tells Lydia.

Derek shrugs at Stiles' look of indignation, and manages to find a seat on his own sofas. Which is weird. "Wait," Derek says, "where _are_ the others? And Peter?" Even now, it's easier to think of him as not!pack. "What happened to them?" 

"Mistletoe chicken happened," Scott says, jerking his thumb at the tinsel and the mistletoe and the chart.

"Specifically my amazing winning streak," Stiles crows, jumping up to his feet, pushing up his sleeves and striding over to the circle of tinsel – Lydia groans and covers her eyes.

Derek veers between _do I want to know_ and _nope I probably do not want to know_ for too long.

"Mistletoe chicken," Isaac says, turning around and leaning over the back of the sofa, glaring sourly at the chart stuck up on the wall which, now Derek looks at it, declares Isaac as losing every single round. "Two people, and you see who runs first. The one who can stay longest in the tinsel circle wins."

"No violence allowed," Scott says, "no pain, just sexy, sexy times." He waggles his tongue, and Derek winces.

But it's kind of his own fault. 

He did voluntarily hang out with them when they were still teenagers, and not just twenty year olds bumming away a college break.

What did he even _expect._

"Be wary," Scott says, thumbing at the chart, "your uncle just keeps popping up at weird times and winning the hell out of it. Even Stiles only managed to hold his hand before running a mile."

"He _tried to lick my nose,_ " Stiles whines. "I'd be winning the whole game if not for him."

"But—" Derek says, and shakes his head, because he thought getting older might come with some control over his own life. As it turns out, he doesn't even have control over his own _brain_.

"C'mon then," Stiles says, clapping his hands, "if there's no _Batman,_ then I need entertainment!" He wriggles his hips as he steps into the circle of tinsel. "Who's gonna challenge me, huh? Any of you up for a second round, huh? Or do I get to check all you losers off this grid for not even stepping up—"

And maybe it was the hip wriggle, because Derek finds himself halfway across the space to the tinsel circle before he even thinks about what he's doing.

Isaac starts laughing and wolf whistling though, so Derek tilts up his chin and keeps going, defiantly stepping into the tinsel circle and waggling his eyebrows at Stiles.

"Do your worst, Stilinski," Derek says, crossing his arms over his chest like this was a conscious plan all along, and not his subconscious weird hang-up of how Stiles sometimes sways his ass from side to side under the misnomer of dancing (and the real possible label of public indecency.)

"Baby, I _plan_ to," Stiles says, waggling his limbs like a boxer limbering up. "You're going to step out of this circle so fast your _head_ will spin."

"We'll see about that," Derek says, and beckons at Stiles, epic kung fu showdown style.

Stiles gives him an uncertain look, just for a moment, and it makes something lurch in Derek's gut. A moment of wondering what this would be like if it _wasn't_ a game.

It is a game. That's all it is. Derek side-glances at the chart, and notices Malia and Lydia had a stalemate on their shared checkbox.

He's sad he missed out on that, and from the way both Malia and Lydia are leaning over the back of the sofa, grinning at him, he doesn't feel too bad for objectifying them in his mind for a few seconds.

"Lay it on me, Hale," Stiles says, jumping into the tinsel circle, and grinning smugly at Derek. Like he expects Derek to back down.

Not any time _this_ century.

Derek narrows his eyes, and makes his first move – taking a step closer to the center of the circle.

Stiles waggles his eyebrows, and matches the step; his smile is definitely smug.

Derek's jaw tenses. He's not going to lose to _Stiles Stilinski_. He reaches out a hand, and curves his fingers around the back of Stiles' neck, and smirks.

Stiles rolls his eyes, and puts his hand around Derek's hip, yanking their bodies close together. His mouth is so close now, still stretched in an insufferable smile; his breath is hot against Derek's cheek, and the stench… Ugh, pure Doritos.

But then… Derek ate some too, so he makes sure to exhale as he curls an arm around Stiles' waist.

Stiles' grin is still firm, like he still thinks he has this in the bag, and he slides his right hand into the hair at the base of Derek's neck, tugging him down to more Stiles' level.

"Scared yet, big guy?" Stiles asks. 

"Not _even,_ " Derek says, and smooths a thumb down Stiles' cheek, simultaneously tugging him even closer, so their mouths are just an inch apart.

Stiles' eyes flicker down to Derek's mouth and he swallows, and his fixed grin waves a little. Just at the edges.

Just enough for Derek's pulse to quicken, the warmth of success bristling under his skin.

"Is this as far as you wanna go, Stilinski?" Derek taunts, pausing to lick his lips and drop his gaze deliberately to Stiles' mouth.

Stiles swallows again, and his grin has faded; he glares at Derek, defiantly, and that's somehow hotter than Stiles' hip wiggles. Something in Derek jolts and jolts _hard_ when Stiles shakes his head – and lifts up a leg to wrap it around Derek's.

There's laughing and hollering in the background, and a couple of lewd suggestions that might make Derek's head spin – if it wasn't already wobbling like crazy.

"I'm gonna take you _down,_ Hale," Stiles says, to the sound of a whoop which is maybe from Lydia, and he leans up the last inch, slow and deliberate, and Derek shifts his thumb so it's rubbing against Stiles' cheek, and his skin is so _soft_ that Derek doesn't realize that he's rubbing it sort of aimlessly now.

"Maybe I'll take _you_ down," Derek says, his lips grazing Stiles' as he talks, and that just rends this _sound_ of Stiles' throat, high and kinda whiny, and that's all the warning Derek gets before Stiles' mouth is moving against his, warm and insistent. 

Derek's startled by it, just for a second, the sensation thrilling down his spine and settling hard in his chest – and then he hears the cheering in the background.

Dammit, it's just a freaking _game._

A game that makes Derek feel like Christmas has come early.

A game that Derek's gonna _win_.

He lets out a snarl, right into Stiles' mouth, and adds tongue to the mix, viciously licking into Stiles' mouth and taking the territory before Stiles even has time to surrender it; of _course_ Stiles counters him straight away, battling for dominance in the kiss. It's hot and heavy and the friction is on the side of painful that Derek likes best, and it's Derek's move, so he slides the hand from Stiles' hip downwards. Because even if this is the move that makes Stiles leap backwards and declare himself the loser of this round of mistletoe chicken,  at least Derek will have experienced squeezing Stiles' ass at least _once_ in his life.

And it's every bit as amazing as Derek's subconscious has been _telling_ him it would be, at night, when Derek's been alone with his thoughts and communing deeply with his best buddy denial; it's firm underneath Derek's fingers, and Stiles flexes the muscles as his palm slides over the curve, and Stiles makes this _sound_. It's not high pitched and reedy like the first sound; it's low and deep and reverberant. It travels through Derek's skin like a sonic wave, and Derek's body understands that sound, because it's feeling it too: want, and need, and something else desperate that's clawing up between them.

"You _fucker,_ " Stiles breathes, pulling his mouth away, and Derek is about to enjoy his success, because this has to be Stiles backing out—but Stiles lowers his mouth to Derek's jaw, and he bites down, imprecise, teeth snapping out, and that's too much sensation, too fast; Derek's hips snap out and both of his hands drop to Stiles' ass, and Stiles responds automatically, wrapping his other leg around Derek, letting Derek haul him up, and Stiles' mouth finds his again, licking and biting into his mouth, and Derek's murmuring something into Stiles' mouth, phrases that don't make sense until he realizes the reason he feels like he's almost _flying_ is that Stiles is hard. Stiles is hard and rubbing against him, and Derek's hard too, and _freaking hell,_ this is the most ridiculous thing ever. And Stiles makes this moan that goes right to Derek's dick, and Derek knows one thing with clarity through the heady daze of his arousal: this really isn't going to last long.

He tightens his grip on Stiles' ass with his left hand, and takes Stiles' weight against him so he can shove his hand down Stiles' jeans. There's a weird sound in the background, something which Derek's brain reminds him he should be more concerned about, but that thought doesn't finish – it's sparked out of existence by Stiles managing to worm a hand in-between their bodies, trying uselessly to unzip Derek's jeans – but he's _way_ too late for it, because Stiles grips hold of Derek's hair with one imprecise grip and _yanks,_ and Derek comes with a startled cry. For half a second he's almost ashamed at his loss of control, but then he realizes that Stiles' frantic, fluid hip movements have stilled at the same time. The smell of come is thick in Derek's nostrils, and he lowers Stiles' legs to the ground slowly, reluctantly, kissing Stiles softly as his feet touch the ground.

Of course, now some of the blood is returning from his groin to his brain, Derek remembers what's actually going on.

He wasn't—This was just a _game_ —And the others—

He tries to pull away, but Stiles nuzzles his face against Derek's cheek, and it's hard to think with him doing that.

"Relax," Stiles says, curling a hand around Derek's wrist when he tries to pull his hand away from Stiles' ass. "The others left as soon as you started making noises." Stiles looks up at him through his eyelashes, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling as he pants warm and wet against Derek's skin, and his eyes are shining with an emotion Derek can't parse into words; it's something like promise, and mischief, and eternal amusement. Probably on Derek's behalf. Derek's finding it difficult to bring himself to care.

"Wait," Derek says thickly, " _what_ noises. _You_ were the one making noises."

He tries to think back, and winces internally. Maybe he _was_ making noises. 

Stiles narrows his eyes a little, but then he shrugs, and kisses Derek on the cheek, open mouthed and wet and a little bit dirty. "We've got the house to ourselves, pumpkin," he says, and smiles when Derek snarls a little at the pet name. "What do you wanna do, hm?"

"Maybe…" Derek says. "Watch _Batman_?"

Stiles' grin, when it comes, is maniacal and wide. Now Derek's not living in denial, he's pretty turned on by it. Stiles isn't making a move, though, and Derek's struck by the weirdest thought that Stiles is somehow still playing the game.

He's waiting to see if Derek's going to make the next move, or play chicken.

Derek swallows, but it's an easy decision – he holds his hand out. And it's kind of the scariest move he's made since stepping in the tinsel circle. Stiles' maniacal grin fades into something softer, and he takes Derek's hand.

"We could get takeout," Stiles says, tilting his chin, and of _course_ he's not backing down, even now.

Yeah, that's kind of what Derek likes most about him, though.

Not that he's going to tell Stiles that.

Well. Not any time soon.

"Yeah," Derek says, easily, as he leads Stiles out of the tinsel circle and over to the empty sofas – the pack left in a hurry, and there's still half-consumed drinks and food on the table. "It can be a date."

Stiles lets out a shaky sort of breath, but when he sits down and pats the sofa next to him, his movements aren't shaky at all. "I'm kinda in the mood for chicken," Stiles decides, waggling his eyebrows and pulling a menu from the table in front of the TV. He looks across at Derek. "Thai?" 

He could be saying Thai, Derek realizes.

Or maybe he's saying _tie_.

And despite being insanely competitive, Derek finds he's feeling very okay with either option.

 

 

* * *

**Bonus timestamp**

**20 years later**

Man, Derek's tired. It didn't even matter that Derek had managed to get Alpha powers again after a misadventure with Peter, a chainsaw, and a magical snow elf; whoever though Alpha werewolves were powerful had never met his seven kids.

Lewis, Robert, Adam, Michael, Val, George and Christian are _monsters_.

Well. _Half_ werewolf. Which leaves them half human. Half _Stilinski_ human, thanks to a magical spell book which allowed werewolf-human interrelations.

Yup, his seven kids are _definitely_ at the very _minimum_ 50% monster.

Derek sprawls out on their bed, and stares up at the ceiling. The renovated barn is a nice house, big enough for the whole brood _and_ for the pack (and ha, that's why Derek had put up with the pack stealing his food for years – because now he has an endless stream of babysitters) – but Derek kind of misses the castle. And the museum. And the bungalow. And the haunted bed and breakfast. And the water tower. He _definitely_ misses the water tower.

"Argh," Stiles moans, thumping down into the bed next to Derek and rubbing at his eyes, "Val painted the car with tomato sauce."

" _Again_?" Derek's too tired to even look at his husband. "Gimme five minutes and I'll go hose it down."

"She painted the inside this time," Stiles says. Derek does force his head to move; Stiles looks a little green. "On the plus side, it's only half messy."

"How so?"

"George licked off half of it before Scott could pull him out," Stiles says, and yeah, that explains his grossed-out expression; they haven't had time to clean their car for the last six or seven months.

"Still," Stiles says, "I'm sure Ben won't be so bad."

"Ben?" Derek blinks. "Wait. Are you pregnant again?"

" _No,_ " Stiles breathes. "Hell no. Just… it would be a shame not to have the full set, right?"

Derek looks scandalised in Stiles' direction. "Are you _kidding_ me right now? No. Stiles, _no,_ even if we—There's no way we're going to have _Batfleck_ as a kid. I'm putting my foot down, I am stepping back— _No._ "

Stiles frowns at Derek, and Derek thinks he's said the wrong thing, until Stiles grins. Even twenty years later, Stiles' grin makes Derek feel a little dizzy, in a very good way. "That means I _win_ ," Stiles says, and his grin goes wide; he curls onto his side, leaning on his elbow, and he just grins at Derek maniacally.

Derek stares. "What?"

"You know," Stiles says. "The game of mistletoe chicken. Pushing each other a step further each time? I can't believe I _finally_ managed to propose a step further than you're comfortable with."

Derek stares at him. "Please don't tell me that our whole relationship has been an extended game of chicken."

Stiles pulls a face, which means he's thinking about it, which means—

Oh my god, it makes sense. Derek was the one to propose – but Stiles is the one who suggested the big white wedding. Derek had the twins – so of course Stiles had to have _triplets_. Derek was the one who said _I love you_ first, and Stiles punched him in the shoulder, called Derek a fucker, and insulted him for ten minutes because _he_ was gonna say it first, _he_ loved Derek, _ugh,_ Derek was a life ruiner, yes, a little more to the _left_ , Derek, _harder,_ Derek, _yes,_ love, _yes—_

"You're just sore you didn't win," Stiles says, and lazily reaches out to grope Derek's ass before snuggling in to him.

Derek thinks about it. In the background, he can hear the faint sounds of the apocalypse; also known as the kids have probably gotten into the larder. Aw, crap. He looks down at Stiles, and pulls a speculative expression. "Best out of three?" he suggests.

"You're _on,_ " Stiles breathes, and Derek shakes his head, amused, because his husband is kind of an idiot. And Stiles might think he won, but… Derek has a family. And a Stiles. He thinks happily that really, _he's_ the one that's winning.

His certainty of that falls as Stiles produces something from the bedside drawer.

Something bright pink.

It has _prongs_.

Derek pales as Stiles holds up lube and waggles his eyebrows.

Yeah. Maybe it's okay if Stiles wins, after all.


End file.
